


The Darkness of Men's Hearts

by gallantrejoinder



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - X-Men Fusion, F/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1995642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For generations, those with Abilities have been born amongst lowborn and high alike, striking people with fantastic gifts from the gods. Sansa can read minds. Sansa cares more for stories - at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As a general rule, it is considered impolite to reveal one’s Abilities. Sansa has been taught this from a young age, and strictly observes her courtesies – after all, she is a highborn lady and although the Abilities manifest in high and lowborn alike, she is determined to not allow them to define her. A lady first, one blessed by the gods second. She doesn’t particularly care for her ability to peer into men’s thoughts, anyway. They are generally disappointing. Rarely does she encounter the purity she dreams must manifest in the minds of her heroes, the Florians and Jonquils of her favourite songs. Thus, Sansa allows herself to tamp down her ability. There is little of interest in men’s minds for a young girl for whom words are sweeter than truth. It is a gift useful only for entertaining guests and strangers – like her quick naming of Renly Baratheon upon their first meeting. 

It all changes in King’s Landing, of course. By the time Sansa realises she should have used her Ability, it is too late. The truth of Cersei and Joffrey’s minds has already been revealed, and her father is dead. She comes to regret her lack of exercise of her Ability even more when her grief echoes through the halls, an emotional projection she cannot control, scaring servants and guards alike for a radius of many metres. Overwhelmed by inconsolable sorrow, she lies in her tower for days without a single visitor.

But eventually, Ser Illyn finds his way through the cloud of her agony. His cruel mind is sharp like a knife, and he shares some weaker form of her Ability – he cuts her defensive bubble to shreds and drags her downstairs, weak from lack of food, and forces her to the parapet where Joffrey awaits her. And the Hound too, silent and disinterested in Joffrey’s desperate attempts to gain his attention. It is almost enough to make her laugh, hysterically, because she can see it. She can see Joffrey’s violent, weaselly little mind scrambling for Clegane’s attention. But Clegane’s mind is like a dull knife, bluntly denying him. Sansa sees through it all.

It is when Joffrey forces her to look upon her father that, finally, she raises a wall around her grief. She will not allow him to know what torment it is to see her father’s proud face blank and unseeing. As her pain is locked away, clearing the air around her, she begins to feel numb – the edge of the parapet is so close, Joffrey is so stupidly trusting in her timidity, she could –

The sound of a blade being unsheathed, two steps, and Clegane is by her side. His claws are out – she knows it is a warning, that he cannot allow her to take those final steps towards Joffrey. Momentarily she fears her thoughts have once more broadcast her intentions, but no, she knows that the Hound is not only like a dog by his claws, but the keenness of his senses. He must have sensed her anticipation. She wants to be angry, but already the urge is fading, already a dull ache is settling in her bones. She will not murder Joffrey this day. Not at the cost of her own.

King’s Landing becomes her greatest teacher. Never have her walls been so strong – not a single thought, a single stray wisp of fear, escapes her. She projects nothing and accepts everything, she feels the queen’s hatred of her in roiling waves, and tucks away knowledge of the fear that plagues Cersei’s dreams. Hands wrapped about her throat and a young beautiful woman, coming to murder her children. Sansa does not know why the queen fears these strange apparitions, yet still, she holds the knowledge close. Cersei’s glittering crystal form, immune to injury, has nothing on Sansa’s Ability.

Joffrey’s mind is shallow, filled with violent urges and the ever-present longing for approval from his men. Sansa is disgusted by him. His mind makes her stomach revolt, and it is difficult enough to simply be in his presence. She tries to stay out of his mind, as often as she can without putting herself in danger. It pays to be able to prepare for the beatings he plans for her.

They do not attempt to shield their thoughts from her. They believe that she is weak, that the few days in which her grief drove away all were a fluke – everyone knows heightened emotions strengthen Abilities, after all. But Sansa, for the first time in her life, is using every ounce of her strength to make herself better, to foster her Abilities. And she is growing stronger. Very soon, she can dip into the surface thoughts and memories of people outside the castle walls. They whisper danger, war, a battle oncoming, starvation in the streets. Never does she see a girl like Arya through another’s eyes. Never does she touch upon her sister’s mind. It is this that convinces her Arya is long gone – though a shapeshifter, Arya’s mind has always tasted the same, like a bright, crackling fire on a cold night. Like home.

One mind resists her. Clegane has been careful, ever since he saw her looking upon her father’s head. His defences are clumsy – surely he’s had no one to teach him how. Nevertheless, it takes a greater effort to see what he conceals. Sansa tries anyway.

He is baffled by her. He sees her fragility, her sorrow, and cannot call it false. But he knows. Somehow, he knows she is stronger than she appears, and for that, he figures she’s manipulating everyone around her. It angers her – if she could, she would be free. Yet there is still some comfort in his mind. Despite the effort required, she finds herself straying there more often than she should. He doesn’t hate her. He doesn’t understand her, but he doesn’t hate her, doesn’t want to hurt her like the rest of the Kingsguard. She comes to the conclusion that she was wrong to call him a blunt knife – his mind is scarred, angry all the time, yet warm. It is not icy like the queen, nor as scattered and violent as Joffrey. And he is more familiar than the ever-changing rotation of servants Cersei acquires to spy on her.

On the day that she saves Ser Dontos, when his voice rises to support her claim to the unluckiness of killing on Joffrey’s name day, she thinks she can almost detect some faint sense of his being impressed. It pleases her, absurdly, to think that someone knows how hard she is trying, that he knows that she is cleverer and more powerful than they think. Perhaps he does not respect her, not quite, but she knows why. Serving under Cersei for as many years as he has, he does not trust highborn women. _I am not like her_ , she thinks. _I will prove it. I will never be like her. I’ll show him._

The Battle of Blackwater almost destroys the walls she’s spent so long strengthening. The women’s terror, the faint but powerful cloud of fear and bloodlust that invades her mind from the near battlefield – it is almost too much. Still, sweating and woozy from the sharp pains in her belly and the strain of forcing away the emotional frenzy, Sansa manages to hold them up. Despite her dread, despite the threat of Ser Illyn, she does not faint, and the women are still and do not panic under the spell of calm that she projects. 

When she makes it to her solar, it speaks volumes of her exhaustion that she does not sense Clegane’s presence until she sees him with her eyes. _I know you’ve been reading my thoughts, girl,_ he projects, loudly. He is drunk, and still he knows that she is within in his mind. Sansa has the grace to blush. 

He does not speak aloud. _I could keep you safe. I could take you away from here,_ he whispers. The feeble shields he once tried to construct against her have melted away with the terror and strong wine flowing through him. He holds a knife in his hand, and his sheathed sword is bloody. She is afraid of him like this – she is afraid for him.

Without thinking, she steps forward. He raises the knife, and in his drunken state it is easy to will it away – to paralyse him. She raises a hand to his cheek, the ruined one. She knows his story. The fire his brother can conjure overcomes his natural ability to heal – he will never be free of the mark of his brother. His eyes are wide and fearful, of her, of the green flames that roar below in the bay. She stares into them, and with the last of her strength wills him to leave. _Go,_ she cries frantically into his thoughts, _leave this place. Get out!_

And, the gods be thanked, he does. 

Sansa curls up with his cloak on her bed and wonders all night through the haze of her fatigue whether it was the right choice. They may never meet again – but should they, he would never forgive her robbing him of his will. Burying her face in his cloak, she allows herself the luxury of tears before the sun rises.


	2. Chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Tyrells.

Margaery Tyrell and her brother Loras enter the hall in a blaze of glory, Margaery’s powerful aura charming even Sansa. Joffrey, of course, is besotted immediately – his easily manipulated mind falls under her spell with no resistance. Cersei is suspicious – Sansa feels the waves of hatred pouring off her skin, the skin she longs to turn to crystal – a defensive move, no doubt. She sees a seed of anxiety sprout within Cersei’s mind, its sweet petals forming a rose. Margaery’s Ability will not work easily upon the Queen.

Sansa keeps quiet and still in the hall, longing to be forgotten. Margaery’s beautiful smile and the draw of her Ability calm her, easing the fear she feels for this girl whose intentions are clear from the moment she lays her glamour upon the boy king. Sansa is free from his clutches now, but Margaery – the Tyrell girl is not much older than Sansa, surely she must be scared . . .

But Margaery’s confidence is quickly understood when Sansa encounters the Queen of Thorns. Olenna Tyrell is a formidable woman, her mind as quick and sharp as an arrow. Cersei has a considerable enemy to consider – and Sansa has no doubt that Olenna Tyrell is an enemy of Joffrey indeed. There is malice in her thoughts when she questions Sansa, a growing disgust as Sansa reveals her burdens to the Tyrell women. Perhaps it is Margaery’s charm that makes her talk. Yet there is something of a friend in Margaery beyond her aura, something sweet in her mind that stretches out a tentative hand towards Sansa. There is something, yes, which restrains her from reaching further. But it is enough in the cold and unfeeling King’s Landing to convince Sansa. Enough to let her in, and oh, Margaery’s mind is perfumed as a flower, with pricking thorns of wit to strike against Joffrey.

But that is Sansa’s mistake. With all the talk of Willas, of a life away from the walls which imprison her, Sansa does not exercise her powers as she should – she loses herself in the promise of safety, in the beguiling sweetness of Margaery. And so it is that she does not understand until mere minutes before it is happening – she will be leashed by the Lannisters permanently. They are marrying her to the wretched Imp.

The ceremony passes with her Ability locked up tight. She cannot bear to know what they think of her, she cannot bear their derision. She dances automatically, hardly eats, and when the time comes for the bedding, the panic rises in her throat like bile.

She goes with him. She struggles to breathe evenly, restricted as she already is in her beautiful gown, but, drunk as he is, he does not seem to notice. She does not pry into his mind – filled, no doubt, with lechery, with everything that he is about to do to her.

And she is so sure, so terribly, terribly sure that he will. But lying upon her marriage bed, she sees something awful change his face. He scrambles off her, having barely touched her – at least, as a wife is meant to be touched. Curiosity overcomes her, her gift awakens and she is within his mind.

Disgust. Not with her – with himself. Overwhelming guilt, confusion, and – something rebellious, something very small and tired and nonetheless defiant, something intertwined with his father’s face. He did lust after her – she feels the afterthought, and resists a shudder. But this fierce thing he has found inside himself will protect her. He will not harm her so long as his father wants him to just that.

She is safe, at least from him.

But the news comes through him. In some vague way she thinks that is cruel – despite everything, he doesn’t want to hurt her. He does more than that, though, when he enters her rooms and gently asks her to sit down.

She has it out of his head before he can even open his mouth, and the disgusting details he would have kept from her wash over her in an awful wave. Grey Wind’s head, sewn clumsily to her brother’s body. Her brother, a king, her brother, who threw snowballs at her just to see her shriek when she was a little girl. Her mother’s laughter, her mother’s screams, and the thousands of men who served her family, cut down and left to rot in the river.

She needn’t cry in front of him. That same grief which repelled all after her father’s death is hers to choose now, hers to use against him. He does not visit her room for weeks.

She closes her mind to him eventually. It does no good to keep them all away when at any moment someone with her same Ability, under the pay of the Queen, might burst through her doors and drag her through the streets as a betrayer, daring to grieve her family. It is only through her husband’s reluctance to tell anyone what is happening that she has not yet been caught, letting the bottomless well of her grief overflow into him.

So she closes her mind, and she waits. She rarely talks to him, murmuring only the barest courtesies and praying alone in the Godswood, weeping as the trees whisper – as if the northern gods are speaking to her, as if her Ability communes even with the grass and grey skies above.


	3. Chapter Three

It is evident from their first meeting that Ser Dontos has not come to rescue of his own accord. Yet it is also evident that he means her no harm.

Through the wine-coloured haze that clouds his thoughts, she senses fear of another, and a longing to protect her. It is almost laughably familiar. Her husband in his cups is much the same, and it has done her no good. Clegane too, the night of the battle, felt like this. She wants terribly to believe that this drunkard could be the key to her escape, yet she cannot allow herself to think of it; to hope. She accepts his family heirloom – beautiful amethysts to shine in her hair – and thinks no more of him. Saving his life has made him grateful. It will not grant her what she longs most for – home, her family, and life beyond the Red Keep’s walls.

New arrivals to the Red Keep are arriving every day in preparation for Margaery and Joffrey’s wedding. It keeps Margaery distant, busy planning with her grandmother and Cersei, when the Queen deigns to make herself present. Two of the new arrivals strike Sansa’s attention, the Red Viper of Dorne – Prince Oberyn, and his paramour, Ellaria. His mind suits his name, often curled tightly around itself – surely someone has taught him defence – yet quickly rising to hiss unpleasantly at the mention of the name Lannister. Sansa feels queasy knowing this, since many would consider her a Lannister now. But though Prince Oberyn is no friend to her husband, she senses his good intentions upon their first meeting. He projects, rather intentionally, an air of good will. His paramour, Ellaria, is beautiful in a far warmer sense than Cersei’s glittering iciness, and she too smiles upon Sansa. Despite the prince’s snake-like eyes and long fangs, Sansa feels reassured by his presence.

But the meeting is brief. Good will and friendliness are like bread and butter to Sansa’s starving heart, so she treasures their smiling faces – and more importantly, their warm minds – in the privacy of her memories. Knowing too that the prince’s hatred of her good-father is so strong as to curl around the walls of his mind’s defences, she watches him carefully from afar.

The day that Margaery marries Joffrey dawns with unseasonable warmth, the sun shining down on the Sept of Baelor so brightly it makes her faint. Around her, many minds drift, muggy and incoherent with the heat. It makes it hard to concentrate – yet one mind pulses not quite anxiously, but determinedly, through the haze. Summoning her Ability, Sansa seeks out the pulsing light through the fog.

The Queen of Thorns is staring at her.

Having gently taken hold of Olenna Tyrell’s sight, Sansa carefully stills her face into one of studied nonchalance, refusing to let the swirling confusion inside her show. The old woman’s sight never varies, barely glancing at to her own granddaughter taking her wedding vows. The back of Sansa’s head is all that the old woman cares to see.

After the wedding, as preparations for the feast begin to give way to the arrival of guests, Sansa senses the beam of light, still brighter though the haze of the Sept has broken, heading towards her. She does not run. She knows she could stop an attack, she stopped Clegane not months ago, and she is even stronger now than she was then.

When Olenna Tyrell only extends a bony, claw-like hand to adjust her hairnet, Sansa struggles to understand. That determination still pulses, this time with a spark of something triumphant. But she did nothing; only corrected a crooked accessory … Surely Sansa’s dress cannot be so important to the old woman. Sansa considers taking the hairnet off, perhaps sneaking away to replace it, but there is no time, and then Lady Olenna will _know_ –

Driven to distraction, she almost doesn’t notice the dwarves, almost doesn’t sense her husband’s mind turn stony and bleak. Turning her mind to the performers, she doesn’t really blame them for their predicament. Some of them are half drunk to cope with the humiliation; the rest are desperate for money for their starving bellies. She wishes she was drunk too.

But there is danger in that. Drink makes her sloppy, makes her project her emotions and fail to understand others’. That much she knows, from Nymeria’s attack on Joffrey. She had sipped wine from Joffrey’s wineskin too often that afternoon, and there were so many people waiting for her give the truth of what had happened – she felt the queen’s surety that Nymeria had tried to kill Joffrey, yet her sister’s bitter anger at the injustice of it all made her stutter and excuse herself. And then Lady – and then –

So Sansa sits silently, as still and delicate as glass, while her husband grips the table with fists of iron. For him, she senses, the torture lasts long hours. For the other guests, the entertainment lasts minutes.

As soon as Joffrey drinks, she knows something is wrong. She can feel the pain emanating from his mind, the panic as he struggles to draw breath. Eyes widening, she rises to her feet – he’s dying.

And one mind amongst the panicking crowd, projecting even more powerfully than the screaming from Cersei’s head, is calmly triumphant. Olenna Tyrell, even while she demands help for the king, is cool and calculating. Even Margaery’s distress does not concern her. Only that Joffrey must die. Joffrey is in his mother’s arms now, pulsing with an all-consuming terror, with such depth of fear that Sansa pities him, this boy who has hurt her in every way possible …

A hand on her shoulder and the spell is broken. Sansa’s unlikely saviour, Dontos, takes her hand and leads her away, running from the Red Keep, running from her husband, running from her gaolers. Freedom may yet be within her reach – but the thought remains: Dontos is drunk again, surely, he could not have organised this.

As it turns out, Dontos has not.

She feels a familiar mind on the ship that awaits them. Sansa only met Petyr Baelish perhaps twice in King’s Landing, and even in that first meeting, before she had truly begun to utilise her ability, she had felt the cold, slimy and slippery thing that was his mind. It reached long, greedy fingers towards her then and she did not understand the sudden chill that overcame her in his presence. His small smile revealed sharp teeth.

Now, with the confused last thoughts of Dontos echoing in her mind as she stares, uncomprehending, at his body, Sansa realises that Littlefinger wants her just as her husband had. Just as Joffrey had. Just as so many men did.

Unlike her husband, however, Littlefinger does not hesitate in this desire. Even now, having killed a man before her very eyes, his eyes rake over her with a vicious kind of victory. She sees her mother in his mind’s eye; her mother long before she was born, a girl just like herself. She sees her mother’s image meld with her own and feels sick – or maybe it’s the boat rocking, or Dontos’ body floating in the water, or –

Sansa faints, and her last thoughts before the blackness claims her are not her own, but his. He thinks, _Now I have you. Mine at long last._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further abilities:
> 
> Margaery = Projects positive emotions; charms and soothes easily. A weaker telepathic ability but one she uses well. Margaery also has the physical mutation of producing a flowery scent, but most assume she wears perfume. In reality the scent works similarly to pheromones or chemicals in that it produces a calmer state in people around her.  
> Prince Doran = Telepathy, very powerful. I mention this because this is where Oberyn got his training; Oberyn has physical mutations - venomous fangs and snake-like eyes.  
> Littlefinger = Mutation Mimicry, similar to Anna Marie (Rogue). This has not yet come into play. Littlefinger also has a physical mutation; sharp, pointed teeth.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time they reach the Fingers, Sansa has numbed herself to Littlefinger’s mind. Though at first, the revulsion she felt at the images and feelings he projects is difficult to hide, it soon becomes easier once Sansa begins to understand that, to her surprise, Littlefinger does not intend to project his thoughts.

 

For though he smiles and speaks little of consequence within earshot – to anyone else the perfect image of a man with little to hide – Sansa knows that Littlefinger is scrupulous and clever. Not once does he touch her, though Sansa always senses the edge of violence that roughens the corners of his smooth, slippery mind. He knows of her Ability, yet whenever his mind touches on it, he dismisses her as less powerful, good only for charming and eavesdropping – the kind of gift Margaery Tyrell had honed so well, (and _oh_ , it still hurts to think of her.) He will use her ability, yet barely bothers to guard his thoughts around her.

 

And Sansa, for all that the constant knot of fear in her stomach keeps her quiet and submissive, feels peculiarly victorious in knowing that he continues to underestimate her. She could steal all his secrets, she is sure of it – even without invading his mind, he would be careless enough around her to let them slip, filtering through the shallows in the river of thoughts he constantly has flowing. She could even plant ideas of her own, if she had time to come up with a plan. She could freeze him in place, and take every ounce of pain – every bit of grief and betrayal, every blow and lonely evening counting Joffrey’s bruises – and throw it at him, make him understand her pain the way she had not allowed herself since the days following her father’s death.

 

But she does not.

 

She waits, as ever, for the perfect moment. And that moment cannot come while there is still a chance her aunt will take her, and protect her. The thought of one last loving relative is enough to keep her going until she reaches the Eyrie, cold and enclosed – safer than Winterfell, but nowhere near as familiar. Nothing like home ought to be.

 

When she encounters her aunt for the first time in many, many years, she sense immediately the fragile nature of her mind. Lysa’s mind is … brittle with emotion. There are dark memories just below the surface, memories which her aunt shouts down inside her mind, hysterical. It is no wonder that the ongoing battle inside her is visible even to those without Sansa’s Ability.

 

As for her cousin, he is fragile too. Sheltered, and younger inside his head than she knows he should be – young like Rickon, instead of Bran. Though little Robin is nothing like them, his little face still reminds her of them, which brings pain that she must work hard to keep inside her.

 

Lysa’s loud emotions make themselves known at the worst of times. When Littlefinger marries her, makes love to her, the agony of her happiness leaves Sansa feeling nauseous. Because she can sense, too, the disconnect in Littlefinger’s head. The lack of feeling for her, the disgust.

 

Whatever her aunt has become inside her own head, Sansa knows that no one should deserve such lies. But she knows too that to tell Lysa the truth would be to break her. So still, she does not act.

 

Littlefinger has named her Alayne, and Sansa follows along with quiet acceptance. But on the inside she knows her true name. She knows what sort of man he is, and she knows she cannot trust her identity to one like him.

 

She is foolish enough, however, to not realise until it is too late that she cannot trust Lysa either.

 

When Littlefinger kisses her, she slips. Her revulsion seeps out of her and into his head, and when he pulls back, she feels his anger with such breathtaking clarity that for a moment she thinks it is her own. But worse than that is the heart she can feel breaking several feet away. Lysa has seen it all, and in her grief, has settled upon Sansa’s guilt almost instantaneously.

 

Sansa doesn’t know why she goes with Lysa, doesn’t try to stop her where she stands. The confusion of rage and grief coming from Lysa is so loud, so overwhelming in its intensity – it pulls out of Sansa all the things she tries not to feel. The fury. The loss. The despair. The things that make her wish, just a little, when she thinks about it too long, that she was dead.

 

_How could you, how could you, how could he? How could he? How could he?_

 

It is in those minutes of confused upset, her aunt’s and her own terror and grief mingling into a painful storm around Sansa’s head, that she doesn’t feel Littlefinger approaching. And so she watches him push Lysa, emotionless, through the moon door and into the open air. She doesn’t hear her aunt hit the ground. She doesn’t need to – she feels in in the second that her aunt’s mind vanishes, erasing itself like the tide over sand.

 

And then something peculiar comes over her.

 

She looks up at Littlefinger. He is saying words she cannot hear, words out loud like Sansa is some weak empath who cannot see the cogs turning in his mind, hear how he is going to spin this. How he will poison Robin, slowly, undetectably. How he will marry her off to the highest bidder, the best exchange. How he is going to go on with her as his daughter in public and in private – in _private_ –

 

She stops him where he stands.

 

He is frozen, limbs unresponsive where she holds them still, pinching the part of his mind that controls them with a vice like grip. He is merely confused at first, then panicked – too terrified to think straight, to _understand_. But as Sansa stands to face him, she feels the pieces fit together in his mind. A chill, rolling down through his unresponsive spine. The dawning horror of realisation, of knowing that he miscalculated.

 

_You can hear me_ , his mind whispers, in terror and interest.

 

_I have always been able to hear you_ , Sansa thinks back, viciously. She pushes every last perverse thought that ever passed through him back into his head, the pain in Lysa’s heart that had stolen the air from the room, the shocking blankness of her death.

 

He shudders, but only when he feels Lysa die. Hearing his own perverse voice provokes nothing but a dark tendril of interest that Sansa curls her lip at, feeling queasy. She walks behind him, not allowing him to see her face.

 

_I must admit, I did not account for your being … this powerful_ , he says. She can feel his quick mind, ever at work, attempting to formulate a bargain. His interest in her has grown, if anything, and it makes Sansa want to rage, that he cannot fear her the way he should – the way so many would, if they knew what he knows now.

 

_Few do_ , Sansa replies, allowing only her words and no more emotion through into his mind. She approaches the door to the hall.

 

_We could do great things together, Sansa. You must know this. With your Ability, with my resources and planning_ …

 

Still he attempts to negotiate with her. Sansa feels dizzy, light-headed with what she knows she must do, as she opens the door and continues to walk, far, far away from the moon door. She passes a maid, and a dark-haired man hurrying to complete some errand, both totally unaware of what Sansa is currently doing.

 

_Petyr_ , she thinks at him. She waits until all of his attention is on her, until he is straining for her voice, confused as to why she left him there. _I was taught that it is better to be loved than feared. I have always believed that_.

 

_But now?_ He thinks, with something like hope. Sansa takes a deep breath, and settles herself down in a chair in her solar. She picks up a stray piece of sewing she had intended to complete that night, and threads the needle.

 

_Now I know that sometimes a balance must be struck. I never asked to play your game. But since I must_ …

 

Confusion, and a creeping dread are all she feels from him before she forces his limbs to move, clumsily, towards the edge of the moon door. Then, blank panic.

 

_Goodbye, Petyr. I hope you are the final example of my vengeance_.

 

And she throws him over the edge, without ever re-entering the room.

 

~

 

It takes hours for anyone to discover that Littlefinger and her aunt are gone. In the days that follow, Sansa mourns, and it is not false. She misses who her aunt might have been. The safety, the family she could have been to Sansa. Robin cries day and night, and Sansa patiently cares for him, trying not to think about the way that Lysa’s mind was snuffed out like a flickering candle in a breeze.

 

The bodies are not found, but a witness, who claims to have heard shouting from the moon door, is. Sansa tries not to feel guilty about planting that idea in Randa’s mind. But it is hard to manipulate a friend.

 

She waits until the council of the Lords Declarant have all met to reveal herself. As Sansa Stark, the lost heir to Winterfell first. But too, as a powerful manipulator of minds.

 

Their shock almost overwhelms her when she freezes them in place and speaks in their minds. She lets them go almost immediately, of course, and suffers through their shouts of outrage and shock. She answers their questions. But she senses sympathy in their minds only when she bares, for the first time in many months, the grief that she carries in her heart to them all in their minds. In that moment, she feels their minds change.

 

It is then, and only then, that Sansa knows she will have an army to take back her home. And some triumphant part of her revels in knowing that the revelation of her grief is a better way to gain the sympathy of the council than any of Petyr’s manipulations would ever allow.

 

When one feels another’s emotions as if they are one’s own, it is difficult to refuse them. Sansa knows that better than anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ... I'm the worst kind of updater. I know. I'm so sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

_Epilogue_.

 

Many years later, in the dawn of summer, Sansa feels a familiar mind in the midst of the hubbub of Winterfell.

 

She cannot place it, at first. So many have died or become lost. To the north, Jon stays, dark and distant and not the boy she grew up with, with the dragon queen, beating back the remains of the dead army that nearly swallowed them all. Bran speaks to her only in dreams. Arya has returned, with a hard shell around her that only cracks in rare moments. She hardly ever wears the face she was born to anymore. No one knows where Rickon is, not even Bran, whose messages are confused at best in the first place.

 

Robin is dead. Not killed by swords or arrows, nor poisoned, as Littlefinger had planned. The shaking sickness simply took him, in the end.

 

Sansa knows every visitor to Winterfell. In an instant if she tries, extracting information in moment regarding their intentions, which are not always good. But when a visitor is familiar, she prefers to guess, brushing the surface only.

 

The surface of this mind feels like a scar. Deep, and always in the process of healing. It feels clear, as if once a great fog had descended upon it only to be burned away by sunlight.

 

He is coming towards the hall, asking for entrance. Sansa allows parley with her people often: it is simple to discover what they want, though the same cannot be said for being able to provide it. He waits, patiently, but he is nervous. Still she does not recognise him.

 

The time has come to look upon him, then.

 

When she enters the hall, he is the only one waiting, a massive figure hidden in a cloak of rough-spun fabric.

 

_Rise_ , she says, in her mind.

 

He starts, but recovers quickly – the queen in the north is known to spend many days speaking not a word, communicating only through her Ability. His anxiety grows and grows until he stands, pushing back his hood –

 

And in that moment, Sansa knows him.

 

The burn on his face is a painful-looking, and as angry, as ever. But the scar of his mind is so much healed, it is no wonder she could not recognise it from a surface brush. He will never radiate peace, but it is clear that he has been in the company of those who do, and it has done him good. She cannot keep the amazement from her face, and instinctively raises her hands to her mouth at the sight of him.

 

_Leave us_ , she murmurs to the guards posted at the entrance. Their curiosity piques, but leave they do. Before her, Sandor Clegane is worried, which is not a word she had ever thought to apply to him before.

 

_Good evening, ser_ , she says, lowering her hands, folding them before her in a neutral stance.

 

_… Good evening_ , he says, words stilted and awkward in his mind.

 

_May I inquire as to your business here? I was given reason to believe that you were dead, ser, or mad_. Sansa examines his face, curious as to the emotions passing through it where her memories only see anger and pain.

 

_Not mad, no. Dead for a time. Or near enough_.

 

_How_? She asks, puzzled and not a little bit concerned, too.

 

She feels his hesitation. _I can show you – aye, or you can look_.

 

Sansa takes a sharp breath.

 

“You do not know what you are offering,” she says aloud. He bows his head. “To see another’s past the way I can – it is an invasion.”

 

_Not if I offer it_ , he thinks, cutting himself before he can clearly tack the word ‘girl’ onto the end – but of course Sansa hears it anyway. Perhaps it is that that convinces her.

 

So she steps forward, though she could do this from very far away, and she reaches for his memories.

 

_Her sister – that she knew, Arya had revealed that much. Pain, blinding pain, his world turning to black. A lost dreamspace, death at side, and pain once more, neverending. Consciousness. An old man at his side, helping him take his first steps. Digging graves day in and day out, regaining his strength by burying the dead, laying to rest his past, over and over again. Healing from wounds that would have killed those without his Ability. Never quite becoming one with the way of life on the isle, but trying, trying. Learning. Talking of things that have never been spoken. News on the wind; a name – her name._

 

She lets him go. He takes a haggard breath and swears inside his mind. She is glad to know some things have not changed.

 

_Why come_? She asks. _You had life there. Many years ahead_.

 

At that, he raises his head.

 

“I made a promise, and I broke it,” he rasps aloud. Sansa does not reveal the turmoil that those words bring, does not let her feelings escape the net of her mind. But it is close.

 

_I’ve come to repay a debt_.

 

_There is no debt_.

 

He shakes his head, and snorts. _Then, if your grace doesn’t mind me saying so, I was going mad with all the quiet. Men like me need action_.

 

That is a lie, she can tell. He was the closest to happy he has ever been on the isle. But –

 

But being here, standing before her. It nurtures pride, healthy pride in himself and a long-lost sense of honour. His guilt is assuaged by her presence. And something else too, something that aches.

 

_What is it that you want, Sandor Clegane_?

 

He glances at her and – kneels. Sansa steps back in surprise.

 

_To serve you. I have years left, and a debt to pay, like I said_.

 

To serve her. _Valar dohaeris_. If all men must serve, she can think to be served by no one better than him.

 

_Do you know_ , she begins, as gently as she can. _You were the first I learned to control like that. I had never stopped a man in his tracks before you_.

 

He says nothing, feels uncertain. Doubts in his abilities for a moment, sees her for the powerful woman she has become instead of the timid girl she was, and admires her even as he feels his own superfluousness.

 

_I can think of no one better to serve me, Sandor Clegane_ , she says, and he looks up at that, shocked, but pleased in a prideful way.

 

_Arise, ser_ , she thinks. _There is still so much left to do_.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, it's done. Wow. I hardly ever finish fics properly!

**Author's Note:**

> So, I plan to continue this through ASOS, AFFC and ADWD, branching off into a loose-ended AU after that. Just so you've some warning.
> 
> In case it wasn't clear,  
> Sansa = telepathy, similar to Professor X.  
> Cersei = Emma Frost's crystallization ability minus telepathy.  
> Sandor = Wolverine's healing, heightened senses, and claws, minus the Adamantium.  
> Arya = Mystique's shapeshifting  
> Gregor = Not familiar with the comics, so unsure if a mutant exists with this ability. But basically, he can create fiendfyre à la Harry Potter.


End file.
